


Bloody Holidays

by CodenameMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Gen, POV John Watson, Sherlock doesn't like the decorations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameMeretricious/pseuds/CodenameMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas at Baker Street. A little Christmas diddy about what could have happened before the party in "Scandal in Belgravia."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Holidays

“Sherlock, you can’t be serious,” John said. He frowned at the detective but continued hanging lights across the mantelpiece and the mirror above.

“Perfectly serious. Besides, since when do atheists celebrate the incorrect date of birth of a religious figure they do not worship?” Sherlock said, yanking down a wreath Mrs. Hudson had hung above the table. A moment later the cow skull was back, headphones firmly in place. 

“Since always?” John said. Though he’d muttered it under his breath Sherlock still heard, shooting John a glare in the mirror before walking over and snatching his skull from the mantelpiece before it could be wrapped in lights. John was glad he’d chosen to hide Sherlock’s secret cigarette supply in the cupboard for now. 

“Yoo hoo.” Mrs. Hudson joined them, carrying a plate of treats into the kitchen. John had already forced Sherlock to move his more dangerous experiments lest he wanted them covered in garland. “I brought some Christmas nibbles.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied, smiling at her. 

“What else do we need for the party, dear?” she asked, tutting as Sherlock groaned at the Santa hats she was holding. 

“A train ticket to anywhere,” Sherlock growled.

“Behave,” John said. “Just for tonight.”

“I don’t understand why we must endure this party, let alone have it at our flat.” The detective threw himself into his chair with a huff, blue dressing gown fluttering around his ankles and bare feet as he slouched in the seat. 

“Because that’s what normal people do,” John said. He finished with the lights, plugging them in and standing back to admire the effect. Yes, with a proper fire and a few more decorations the flat would look very Christmas-y indeed.

“Oh, yes, and we’re the very definition of ‘normal,’” Sherlock muttered. John signed but ignored him, taking one of the Santa hats and climbing up to balance it on the cow skull. He would listen to the complaining so long as Sherlock stopped undoing every decoration he put up. 

“That’s heinous,” Sherlock said, eyes flitting to the Santa hat.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “What else have you got, John?” she said.

“Well, we can put this somewhere,” he said, picking up the wreath Sherlock had tossed to the floor.

“Oh, what about stockings?” she asked, clapping her hands together in excitement. John knew she saw the two of them as something akin to her own sons, but he didn’t need to look at Sherlock to know the stockings would be chemically incinerated within minutes.

“Best leave off on the stockings, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, patting her shoulder as he walked passed and grabbed one of the biscuits she’d brought up. He hadn’t known too many times when his mum had baked for the holidays and he savored it now, some thirty odd years late. 

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. Let me know if you need anything else before the party,” she said. 

“There’s alcohol in the fridge and no body parts on the worktop. I think that’s all we really need,” John said.

“Yes, your party standards are remarkably high,” Sherlock said. 

John ignored him. 

“Ta,” he said to Mrs. Hudson as she headed down the stairs. As much as she claimed to not be their housekeeper, she did an extraordinary amount of the work for them.

John double-checked the kitchen, ensuring no fingers had been left in the microwave and no intestinal fluid in the sink. “Sherlock, you know you’ll need to be dressed for this party,” he said.

Huffing like a five-year-old, Sherlock continued with his mini-sulk, not responding. Still, John knew he wasn’t being ignored completely; they weren’t on a specific case, save the problem of Irene Adler, and Sherlock was nowhere near in his typical thinking pose. 

“Right, I’m off for a shower.” Silence greeted him and he trudged off to the bathroom, vaguely wondering what Sherlock would do with himself the few days John planned to be visiting Harry. Maybe if he got Sherlock to eat today he wouldn’t be in too bad of a state come John’s return. Of course, he knew that if he left the tray of Christmas biscuits out they’d be gone in a few days. For all that Sherlock claimed his body was only transport, he sure did have a sweet tooth. Maybe if John just hid biscuits around the flat…he shook his head, securely locking the bathroom door behind him so as not to replay the incident from July.

After his shower John went back downstairs, praying that Sherlock hadn’t seen fit to rip down all the decorations in the half hour that had passed. He was surprised to see that everything still remained and that Sherlock was now dressed in one of his typical black suits, a crisp white shirt opened one button too many. His pale skin was almost translucent against the white. John shook his head, noting that Sherlock was now properly sitting in his chair, the human skull in his hands. John vaguely wondered if two was the acceptable number of skulls for one flat.

“Abomination,” Sherlock said when John went to the fridge. They’d decided Mrs. Hudson would keep the food. Sealed beer bottles were somewhat safe if Sherlock managed to sneak a head into the fridge before John could stop him. 

“What is? Christmas? Or just parties in our flat?” John asked, pulling a beer from the head-bare shelf.

“That jumper,” Sherlock replied.

John looked down at himself. The jumper had been an early Christmas present from Jeanette. Their relationship, though new, was already somewhat strained by John’s living with Sherlock, and he’d decided to wear the admittedly appalling jumper in a fit of desperation and Christmas spirit. He didn’t reply to Sherlock though, simply glancing at the clock before moving to the sitting room and taking his chair opposite the detective. He watched Sherlock’s long pale fingers wrap around the old “friend.” They nearly consumed the bone, caressing the dome of white with enviable dexterity.

Jeanette’s fingers were shorter. Still long and pretty, and her nails, though not usually painted, were always trimmed and delicate. Her skin was caramel colored, and as warm as she was. She’d been interested in Sherlock’s work as a detective, but John was pretty sure she approved of his medical career far more than his running about the streets of London chasing bad guys with Sherlock. 

“Be nice tonight, yeah?” John said, taking a pull from his beer and already knowing he’d have to choose between complete drunkenness or remaining sober if he was to deal with Sherlock this evening.

“When am I ever rude?” Sherlock asked the skull. John rolled his eyes but the skull’s answer seemed more satisfactory for it was graced with a smirk before Sherlock looked up. “What’s not to celebrate about unwanted guests making awkward small talk and drinking spiked eggnog in my sitting room?”

“Exactly,” John said. 

“But why must they come here?” Sherlock asked, glowering around at the decorations. They were remarkably simple, but any interruption to his workspace was greeted with his most absolute disdain. 

“Don’t,” John warned when he looked ready to start tearing them down again. “Please, just one night. You can tear them all down before I leave.”

“And why must you spend time with your sister? How can she possibly be interesting? You’ll have to endure hours of her sordid life story and spend time socializing.” He spit the word out like it burned his mouth. Knowing Sherlock, it probably did.

“Because she’s family,” John said, ignoring the rest of his comments. “Why don’t you go visit yours? Get out of London. Don’t you have some ridiculously expensive estate in the country?”

“Mmm, yes. Mummy does send an invitation each year.”

“Let me guess, you don’t even open them before they get tossed in the bin.”

“She calls as well. Last year she sent Mycroft round to try and collect me.”

“I can imagine how that went.”

Sherlock smirked. 

“But why don’t you see them? You must get lonely, at least once a year?” John asked. He set his beer down, wary of the reply he would get. He hadn’t meant to voice his thoughts, knowing Sherlock well enough to see that he was perfectly fine on his own. The night was leaning toward one of soberness. It seemed John would need his wits about him lest he let Sherlock ruin the entire evening.

Sherlock sent him a pointed look before speaking, but something in his eyes flickered for a moment before hardening once more. “John, please. Sentiment is not one of my many specialties. Only you have been gifted with such sense of feeling, I’m afraid.”

Perhaps, but John didn’t reply, watching as Sherlock set the skull aside, standing from the chair and reaching for his violin. He could claim he was free from all feeling, but John knew Sherlock had to occasionally notice when he was gone. Maybe not his trip to Dublin, but he’d spoken enough of John’s upcoming visit to Harry’s that he’d started to wonder if Sherlock didn’t get lonesome. He’d lived so long on his own…but John was flattering himself, thinking he meant so much to his flatmate. They were friends, yes, but Sherlock wasn’t what one would consider a typical drinking mate. 

The violin started and John wondered if he could convince Sherlock to play for their guests. He knew them all, and it was only a small group. Maybe if Mrs. Hudson made a special request. She was definitely Sherlock’s biggest weakness. John allowed himself a smile since Sherlock was facing away from him. He could probably still deduce what John was thinking, but the detective seemed occupied enough for the moment, staring out the window as he played. 

“You can come with me, you know.” John nearly clapped his hand over his mouth when the violin stopped and he realized he’d said the words aloud. Yes, he would definitely need to slow it down on the drinks front. “I mean,” he stuttered, trying to find a way to back out of it. “Only if you want to. “ Please say no. He had to say no. 

Sherlock gave a soft chuckle, the violin still tucked beneath his cheek, bow poised over the strings. “Yes, I’m sure your sister would love to have me as company.”

“She’d deal with it,” John said. Dammit. Why didn’t he just shut his mouth? Sherlock had basically said no. Why did he have to keep offering? Stupid, Watson. 

“I don’t believe it is your place to invite me to stay at your sister’s flat,” Sherlock said, tone somewhat surprised but wary.

John didn’t have a response to that, at least one that he could voice, so he remained silent until the violin started once more. He huffed out his breath, groaning quietly as he put his head in his hand. He needed a break from Sherlock, had actually been looking forward to it, despite the fact that it meant he had to deal with Harry. Now he was offering for the detective to join him on holiday? Good God, he’d lost his mind. 

But something had made him speak. He was always drawn toward his obnoxious family in the wintertime. There were so few of them left and they so rarely got along enough to see each other that the holidays always made him want to try and patch things up. Besides, it was the spirit of the season, wasn’t it? Spending time with family and friends, enjoying the company of others and being thankful for everything? He knew Sherlock didn’t appreciate any of it, much less feel the same urge to reach out to Mycroft or his mother, but that flicker in his eyes when John had asked him about being lonely…it wasn’t an expression John wished to see again.   
He sighed and straightened up, checking his phone and knowing that Jeanette would arrive in a few minutes and Mrs. Hudson would soon bring up the food. The song Sherlock was playing came to an end, fading out before he dropped the bow and returned the violin to its case. 

“Now, how long must this torture last?” Sherlock asked, turning toward John. His eyes held the same steady gaze as always and John was surprised to find he’d been expecting…well, something.

“Only a few hours,” he said, grateful that the entire subject had been dropped. There were upsides to living with flatmate unconcerned with emotions. 

“Dull, tedious, “ Sherlock huffed, dropping back down to his chair and tapping his fingers against the armrests. 

A knock at the door came seconds later and John rose to answer it, Jeanette no doubt having arrived. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his tone causing John to turn. The detective stared up at him, frowning before he opened his mouth again, as if unsure of what he was about to say. “Thank you.”

John paused for a moment, so unaccustomed to receiving thanks from Sherlock for anything, much less something he wasn’t even aware of doing. “For what?”

Sherlock paused again, giving John a look that said he really ought to know what he was talking about. “The invitation to join you at your sister’s. It’s completely unnecessary, and I could not be more disinclined to accept it, but…thank you.” The intense blue gaze softened a fraction before the eyes dropped and Sherlock cleared his throat. “Now, if the torment must commence, I shall do my best to remain stoic for, as you say, ‘the sake of Christmas spirit.’ Bloody holidays.”

John smiled, nodding once as Sherlock made a show of scowling at the mantelpiece lights once more. He made his way downstairs, knowing that, despite Sherlock’s lack of warmth and complete disinterest in normal human activities, there was a bit of human in him after all. Ah, sentiment. If it could reach Sherlock Holmes it could reach anyone. John was now most definitely in the Christmas spirit.


End file.
